Escape Artist
by Ieyre
Summary: He might've been the single greatest disappointment of her teaching career—but she could never sit idly by in the face of wasted potential. Six conversations between Minerva McGonagall and Sirius Black, 1976-1996.
1. April 1976 - Career Advice

**April, 1976**

Career advice, Minerva McGonagall decides, neatly tucking the parchment with Mary McDonald's suggested classes away in her desk drawer, is one of the more tedious duties of a head of house at Hogwarts. In plain truth, the vast majority of her students—fond of them and proud as she may be of their achievements—are not bound for particularly interesting or profound careers. Most Hogwarts graduates' lives will be marked with small, personal accomplishment—marriages and children, modest promotions, occasional tragedy—all-in-all, in a word, _ordinary_.

Every wizard is important in his domestic sphere and among his friends, but few leave a large footprint in the road of history.

Of the hundreds of students she has advised in all her years as a teacher, there have been only a dozen or so whose upper-level course selections have really mattered.

Even fewer of those has she had an influence on, for the exceptionally gifted—usually, it follows, being uncommonly ambitious as well—are in the habit of knowing exactly what they intend to do when they graduate school, rendering the meeting a mere formality, and her presence, superfluous.

A sharp rap signals the beginning of her next appointment. She looks up at the door, mentally arming herself for battle.

That was all, of course, only _usually_ the case. On rare occasion Minerva finds herself with an extremely gifted student who is in need of some direction. Or _any_ direction.

Rarest of all is a magical prodigy barreling off the proverbial cliff.

"You may enter," she says, calmly, the door opens, and a tall, dark-haired boy of sixteen walks into her office and plops down on the chair across from her.

His posture is relaxed, his expression somewhere between amused and bored—what he is doing in his seat can best be described as _lounging_.

 _So this was how they were going to play it_ , she thinks to herself, sizing up her charge, before she glances down at the parchment on the top of a rather thicker-than-most file.

The header reads: _Black, Sirius._

"First of all," the boy begins. "I want it on the record that neither I, nor anyone even _remotely_ associated with me, had anything to do with the suit of armor that has locked itself in Mr. Filch's office."

She has no knowledge of this, but staring over her desk at the grinning miscreant before her, it occurs that there's a good chance no such suit of armor exists—she has never known him to confess to a crime so baldly—and that this could very well be a ploy to get her to leave the room and end the session prematurely.

Minerva McGonagall will not be deterred by such paltry tricks.

"You know full well that that is _not_ what we are here to discuss." She fixes him with a steely look—the one she has had to give all the boys from his year. "This is your mandatory career advice session. We scheduled it a week ago."

To that, he slouches even further in his seat.

"We are here," she continues, unperturbed. "To discuss your future, Mr. Black."

To her surprise, that seems to get his interest—he sits up, his eyes are alert with a kind of world-weariness she would not have expected from as thoughtless and wild a boy as his five years at the school have proven him to be.

"That's easy enough, professor," he says, mouth curling in a faintly ironic smile. "I haven't got one."

The only thing that keeps her from rolling her eyes at this absurd declaration is the matter-of-fact way in which he says it.

"And why, pray tell, is that?" He blinks up at her, as though the answer is so obvious he would not dream of presuming she doesn't already know. "Tell me, Mr. Black, why a student at the top of his class, with brains to spare, however often he misapplies them—and, God forgive me for saying it, more _charm_ than he knows what to do with—has 'no future', as such."

Black stares at her for a moment, face a model of circumspection, before—

"—You think I'm charming?"

"You are getting away from the point."

The smirk fades as quickly, and in the absence of another smart remark—

"May I go, professor?"

"No, you may _not_ , Black." Her patience thins—this is not how she has expected this particular career advice session to go. She has _expected_ flippancy—a few absurd suggestions, if there's anything he can be counted on to do, it's provoke—but this sullen obstinacy has taken her off-guard. It's worse than glibness, there is the whiff of _fatalism_ about it, and if there is anything she cannot abide, it is those who take no responsibility for themselves. "The point of this meeting is to discuss what you plan to do after you graduate Hogwarts, so that I may advise you on the NEWT-level courses you should consider, based on what you can reasonably expect from your OWLs—"

"Just put me in whatever classes James is taking."

Her irritation spikes.

"You cannot make a _career_ out of following Mr. Potter around."

"Why not?" Black shoots back—and then, realizing he has revealed too much, he lowers his eyes to stare moodily at the unopened tin of biscuits on her desk.

She considers Black again, studies the uncommonly good-looking boy sulking three feet in front of her, and wonders if on this occasion—and many others besides—she has taken the wrong tack with him. Of the four fifth-year Gryffindor boys—the most difficult collective group of students she has ever had under her charge, though she would not dream of telling them that—Black is by far the most… _challenging_.

If she is to go with her instinct, she would say he is the most difficult, but then, by definition, Sirius Black would be the most difficult student she has ever taught—a hard argument to make, considering the ease with which he performs nearly any magic asked of him.

He is certainly among her most frustrating students—and uniquely so, though few know as much. Her colleagues speak of Potter and Black as though they are a matched set, but after five years of near-weekly disciplinary meetings, she knows better.

As a _unit_ they may function as one, but separate, the two boys are very different animals.

James Potter is boastful and impertinent, like his friend—the product of excessive indulgence by his parents and his school-wide popularity—but there's no _malice_ in him. He likes being liked too much, perhaps—but he is no less likable for it, and Quidditch has provided a healthy outlet for his adolescent zeal. Since she made him captain of the team at the beginning of the previous term, she already sees positive signs—the position has nurtured his natural leadership qualities—there is even a hint of latent maturity lingering about him.

And while Potter may be prone to backsliding—in no small part, she's sure, from the encouragement of his confidant—her meeting with _him_ had been straight-forward. While 'Quidditch career' was not what she hoped for from her best student—at least it _was_ an ambition.

The only obvious ambition _Sirius Black_ has is in this moment is to escape.

He may not share the 19th century manners of his family, but even now their arrogance is on full display before her. He is restless, easily bored, prone to moodiness and fits of sudden temper in equal measure, the kind of boy her mother used to euphemistically call 'too handsome for his own good.' While she makes a concerted effort to know as little as possible about the students' romantic exploits, she cannot escape credible rumors he has, without conscience, callously strung along more than one girl, and she is convinced it is only the restraining influence of his friends that have kept him from doing far worse.

To, at only sixteen, have such talent and _squander_ it as he has is unconscionable.

"You did not answer my question, Mr. Black." He leans back in his chair, choosing to shift his persona from sullen child to lord-of-the-manor. She has little patience for either performance. "Why should you have no future?"

The chair drops to the floor.

"You will not leave this office, Mr. Black, until I feel we have adequately discussed your future." He looks up through the fringe of hair that hangs elegantly in his eyes. "I suggest, to that end, we come to an agreement that you _have one_."

"It's not that I don't have one," he admits, finally. "It's—that I've never had a choice in it."

She is momentarily—again, against all expectations—surprised.

"Do you…care to elaborate?"

He sighs, heavily—the sigh of a much older, wiser person than he is.

"From the moment I stepped into this castle I've known what I was going to do when I left it," he explains, flatly. "Nothing in-between really matters, so I suppose I don't see the point in pretending it does."

"For someone who believes that, you've done quite well in your studies, Black," she remarks, tartly.

"Yes, well—I like to do magic and I'm quite good at it—" His customary modesty on full display. "And I don't want to be chucked out, obviously. So of course I have to try to a _degree_ , but it's not as though whether I take Ancient Runes or Arithmancy make much difference…when it comes to classes, why shouldn't I just be with my mates?"

"I see you've given this a great deal of thought," she says, noting that her withering tone doesn't phase him any more than her sarcasm does. "And what, pray tell, is this destiny that has awaited you from your first year in these hallowed halls?"

"To take my place as heir to the seat of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, of course."

She blinks slowly behind her spectacles—grateful that they can act as a barrier between them, so that he cannot see that he's succeeded in catching her off-guard—however momentarily.

"And—forgive me my ignorance, what precisely does that entail, Black?"

He shrugs.

"For my father it seems to be mostly sitting in his study reading the paper and counting large sums of money."

He looks up at her—a clear, straight gaze—and seems to be daring her to laugh.

But in this delicate moment it feels—prudential that she should take him in deadly earnest.

"I see."

His expression remains defiant, but she notes—with the twinge of pride that accompanies any of her students exhibiting a Gryffindor trait—that he does not want her pity.

She straightens his academic file on her desk again before speaking.

"So. Let me see if I understand you, precisely. You believe that the seven years you will spend at this school—assuming you don't manage to get yourself expelled, which, from an objective examination of your disciplinary record thus far leaves _me_ in doubt—are not for the purpose of preparing you to become a productive and contributing member of the magical community —" Through this dizzying onslaught he has yet to blink. "—but instead are a mere…way-station in your life, a stopgap you are making the best of before some mysterious destiny that I—through either my ignorance or stupidity—couldn't _possibly_ understand."

"I didn't say you couldn't understand—"

"Hogwarts," she cuts through him, not bothering to conceal her fury. "Is not a place to hide away from problems. It is not a holiday spot that exists for your entertainment. It is a _school_."

He looks her square in the face, unflinching—the raised voice that has made hundreds before him quake in their boots not affecting him in the slightest.

Minerva so rarely loses her temper, and he is one of the few students who can unleash it. His friends—Lupin and Pettigrew, even _Potter_ can be chastened by a sharp word from her, but Black has always remained cool and calm, nodding when appropriate but never losing his insolent defiance, and every disciplinary meeting she has ever had with the boy has left her with the distinct feeling that he has heard every word and listened to _none_ of them.

A suspicion has long been brewing in her mind that her chastisements are feeble compared to what he hears at home.

"We do not spend considerable time and assets educating young wizards so that when they leave school they will _dither_ away their lives, Mr. Black. I have watched every student under my charge walk out the doors of this castle for the final time with the assurance that, great or small, they would use what they learned here to the best of their abilities, and I do not intend to make an exception for _you_."

"Are you saying you think I ought to leave Hogwarts, professor?"

Another surprise. Even his—what the muggles commonly refer to as a 'poker face'—wavers. What was rhetorical when it formed in his mind has become genuine halfway out his mouth.

She does not answer for a long moment.

"You have just admitted to me you have no interest in your studies, either for their own sake or for the furtherance of any career, and you clearly believe your magical abilities are far beyond those of your peers. I daresay you think your professors have nothing left they can teach you—given what I have just told you about this institution's mandate, _I_ ask _you_ the question—is there any reason you can give me that you should _stay_ at Hogwarts?"

This breaks through, and she realizes, triumphant, that she's touched him at last—face flushed, he opens his mouth to shoot back a reply—but no words come out. For a boy so known for wit, confidence and bravado—he is at a loss.

"I see." He closes his mouth again. "And yet—I do not think you wish to leave the school."

He nods, almost imperceptibly.

"Which leaves the question—why do you wish to stay?"

More calmly—

"I refuse to believe that you have never seriously considered what you, Sirius Black—free from anything but your own inclinations—would really like to do with your life."

"I haven't."

" _That is unacceptable_!"

She finds herself, against all odds, standing, and the flush of fury is back on his cheeks.

"Do you shout at everyone who comes to these, or am I just the lucky one?" he asks, standing up as well, and though before now she has never even contemplated using a spell on a student, she wants nothing more in this moment than to slap him across the face.

"If I thought there was any other way of getting through your thick skull, believe me, I would have employed it already." He takes a step towards the door. "You will sit back _down_ , Black, and you will listen, God help me, if we have to sit here all day until you do."

He freezes—glances between the door and her face—her expression is deadly serious—and then, for the first time in his storied school career, obeys the order without comment and returns to the chair in front of her.

When she feels she has his attention—his _full_ attention, no breezy answer back at that ready—she sits back down as well, and calmly proceeds.

"Every class put in my charge has at least one stand-out student—someone of extraordinary natural gifts, who garners the attention of their professors and classmates through excellence in school work, leadership or character."

"I imagine _you_ were that student when you were here, professor."

"I believe I told you to _listen_ ," she snaps—the attempt at cheap flattery is feeble, even for him. "Now, imagine the faculty and Professor Dumbledore's excitement when, five years ago, the incoming class had not one, but _several_ students who could be described thusly." He says nothing. "I will not insult your intelligence or pretend you have any degree of natural modesty, Black—you know full well that you are one of them.

"This is not a compliment, it is a statement of fact. Your talents you were born with, they have little to do with your actions—and your _actions_ are my chief concern. Since entering this school, you have dedicated yourself fully to disruption, terrorizing your Slytherin classmates and, above all, to yours and your friends' amusement at the expense of nearly everything else. As far as I can tell, your only aspiration has been to get in as much trouble as possible short of expulsion and you show no signs of remorse or shame for any of it. Would you say that's an accurate summary of your academic career?"

"I've never heard it put so eloquently," he answers—and even dares to allow _pride_ to creep into his voice, as if gaining her ire on this scale is an accomplishment. Where anyone else would be in tears or red-faced in shame, he has the audacity to _smirk_. "Is there a point to this?"

"The point," she snaps, tartly. "Is that we are having this conversation in spite of all the facts. And do you know why that is?"

"No."

"I believe that you are capable of more."

The smirk drops from his face.

"Moreover, I believe that you _want_ more. I think that the reckless provocateur persona you have tried so hard to cultivate is a facade, and that, beneath it, you _do_ wish to make something of yourself. You have a fuzzy idea of what it might be. You lack direction, but direction would require self-examination, which can be difficult, even painful, and one of your many faults is a habitual tendency to take the easy way out whenever possible. You are bright and talented—capable, when pressed, of perhaps doing extraordinary things—but unless you do some hard thinking about what it is you _want,_ you are in serious danger of _wasting your life_."

The speech—more cutting for its extemporaneous floridity—has flowed quite naturally from her. She has rarely found admonishing a student so easy, and she wonders if he realizes it's a sign of respect that she has bothered to do it with so much eloquence.

"All I want," he answers, quietly—and it is with the hangdog tone of the perpetually misunderstood, quaver and self-righteousness hovering just beneath the surface. "Is to be let alone."

"In my experience, Mr. Black—the world is not in the habit of letting _anyone_ alone." He swallows hard, the muscle in his cheek tightening visibly. "And the people who deny this fact are the most likely to be disappointed by it."

Black says nothing, but she can see plainly on his face that he _wants_ to argue with her. The only thing preventing him is the certainty that arguing will prolong the length of this audience even further.

She glances at the clock on the wall—even having deliberately scheduled more time, she's five minutes past when the next one should start. Minerva is dearly tempted to drag this out, knowing how much he doesn't wish to be here—but the second the impulse crosses her mind she recognizes it's childish, and the thought of Black dragging her to his level is disquieting.

Let the _child_ be the childish one.

"As you are clearly not ready to discuss career options in any specific terms—we can leave _that_ for now," She pauses, meaningfully, and, reverting to her usual businesslike state— "As it is, I believe you can expect an "Outstanding" OWL in Transfiguration—you are the best in your year after Potter, so I would _strongly_ suggest you continue—I believe even _you_ might be challenged by the upper curriculum. Professor Flitwick happily informed me that you tied for first with Ms. Evans on the last practical he gave, and that your essay on the Homonculous Charm was, and I quote, 'the best he had ever read'—he seemed to think you had a great deal of experience doing it, I assured him I could think of no reason why you _would_ , though I can't explain _why_ I said that, as I'm sure your extensive knowledge comes from some practical and likely illicit use."

"How would one go about using the Homonculous Charm _illicitly,_ professor?"

"If you don't already know, I've not intention of giving you any ideas." The corner of his mouth twitches. "Professor Slughorn tells me he doesn't believe you care for potions, but that he 'enjoys you so much' he'd like you to keep you on in the upper level course. Potter wishes to, so I'm sure you do as well."

"Of course," he says, mood perking up at the possibility she's accepted the wisdom of his Potter-centric schedule schema. "And you can tell old Sluggy—"

"I will relay no message of yours to _Professor_ Slughorn, thank you," she cuts Black off, crisply, and suppresses the urge to order him to stop _smirking_. "Whatever you have to say he will enjoy hearing directly from you, anyway."

Horace has never gotten over not having Black as his own student—the Head of Slytherin feels he was cheated, somehow—that by dint of birth the very talented jewel of the Black Family Crown should have been placed with the rest of his family in the warm bosom of Salazar.

She has remarked to him on more than one occasion that if transfer were possible, she would happily fill out the paperwork.

As Minerva glances over the rest of Black's academic file, she feels the beginning of a stabbing pain behind her eyes. She lets out a long sigh, wondering if she has gotten through to him at all.

It seems inevitable that he will be one of her great disappointments.

"The rest of your schedule next year can be—revisited, I'm sure, at a later date. Perhaps after you've taken your exams." She folds her arms in front of her on the desk between them. "Do you have any questions?"

"No, professor." His eyes are still alert and wary—he isn't safe yet, after all. "Will that be—is that all?"

"Yes, Black—you may go."

He rises from the chair, slower now that he has permission to do so, and shuffles a few steps towards the door.

"There is—" He turns, not entirely surprised. "There is one last thing."

"Yes?"

"As your head of house, I must inform you that this meeting has not satisfied my baseline requirement for career advice—and our…" She can see he bristles. "…our earlier conversation is not over. We _will_ be revisiting the question—but in the meantime, I would like you to consider, carefully—what it is that matters most in the world to you."

"Professor…?"

"I think you will find it helpful as a starting point."

He merely stares at her—and for once, with no gang of friends around to impress or wrongdoing to conceal—the inner workings of his mind are laid out clearly on his face. She is sure—for the first time—that he has actually listened to her. Her advice may have even sunk in, made an impression upon this headstrong sixteen-year-old wizard—but that is wishful thinking on her part, and she is nothing if not a realist when it comes to these matters.

For now, it is enough that she has done her duty.

The rest is up to him.

"Could you send in Ms. Blanchard on your way out?"

He nods and leaves, quickly—quicker than he entered. As she pulls out Antonia Blanchard's file, she thinks to herself, wryly, that it would be too much to hope he is hurrying off to think long and hard about what she has said. More likely he is meeting Potter, and they will spend the free period planning their next ambush on the Slytherin gobstones team, or transfiguring the caretaker's cat into a platypus—that fleeting thought reminds her that she ought to check and see if there really is an enchanted suit of armor in Argus's office.

A timid knock.

"You may enter, Ms. Blanchard."

It will be many years until she knows she _has_ gotten the point across, and it is to the credit of her great modesty that she will _never_ realize the extent to which this seemingly insignificant moment is the point upon which the rest of his life will turn.


	2. September 1976 - Correspondence

**September, 1976**

Professor McGonagall did not look forward to student audiences, as a general rule—not that she met with her students any more than was strictly necessary. She was a busy woman, teaching what was arguably the most difficult branch of magic that Hogwarts offered, so there was little time to _socialize_ with her pupils—and anyway, the no-nonsense Head of Gryffindor House didn't think fraternizing with underaged witches and wizards did them much good. In this respect she differed from at least _one_ notable colleague—but she had no regrets on that score. She might have fewer gifts sent to her than Horace Slughorn did, but she could be sure that when _she_ saw an alumnus outside of school it was from affection for her that they were there, not to curry any favors.

When she _did_ meet with students, it was to help them with her subject—or, regrettably, as was more often the case, to discipline them. Those conversations were the most unpleasant aspect of being an educator—a necessary evil—but something she had come to expect, especially with high-spirited Gryffindors under her charge.

And so she eyed the two neatly written pages of the letter lying atop the envelope on her desk with a feeling she was not used to vis-a-vis her students.

Anxiety. She was _nervous_.

After teaching in this school for nearly twenty years, she had believed she was well past _firsts_ , but after reading—and rereading, and _re_ reading the letter she'd received by tawny owl at breakfast that morning, Minerva McGonagall had to concede the uncomfortable conversation that lay before her would be the first of its kind.

She reached out to pick it up and pour over it again.

 _Are you a Gryffindor, or aren't you, Minerva?_

A knock on the door startled her, and she hastily pushed the letter to the far end of her desk and dropped her hand into her lap.

"You may—come in," she said, weakly—her voice cracked. The Transfiguration professor cleared her throat and repeated, louder, "You may come in, Mr. Black."

The door opened, and a tall Gryffindor lad, now in his penultimate year of school, walked in and sat down in the chair in front of her desk.

This was the first time she'd seen him up close since the term had begun earlier that week, and so McGonagall allowed herself a moment to observe what changes two months away from Hogwarts had wrought.

He didn't look _so_ different than he had at the end of summer term—apart from the long, nasty burn mark on his right cheek, the only thing marring an otherwise handsome face—but she felt a change, regardless. He was one of the boys from the sixth-year class who'd had his growth spurt the previous spring—when he'd come into the Great Hall for the Welcome Feast, chatting excitedly with his gang, she'd noted that Potter had at last caught up with his partner-in-crime in height, growing at least three inches over the holiday.

It wasn't a _physical_ change, then—maybe it was the way he was holding himself, not posing for once, his back straight, body still, an expression suggestive of real curiosity as to why she'd called him into her office. _Usually_ when she had him in that chair, he knew exactly why, and he often sported a rather cheeky grin over it.

There was no grinning now.

"You ought to have that looked at, Black," she said, breaking the silence. For a moment, he didn't seem to know what McGonagall meant, so she pointed to the spot on her own face.

"Oh—it's nothing, professor," he said, shrugging her off. "Just a scratch."

"If it's a 'scratch', Madame Pomfrey should be able to heal it in a minute," she remarked, dryly. He shrugged again and didn't answer her—to reply would be to admit that it was not a common, garden variety burn, and might provoke the obvious next question.

"I sort of fancy getting a scar," he said, smiling—and reminding his professor more of the boy she had had to be severe with so often the past five years. "Coming up with a new story every time a girl asks me how I got it."

 _And not one of them the truth,_ she thought—but decided to let the matter drop. Even if it was, as she suspected, related to the contents of the letter—it was a side dish, only, not the main course.

"Did you have a…good summer holiday?" she asked him, cautiously—testing the waters. They were uncharted, so she belt more comfortable pushing slowly off the dock.

"Er…yes," Black answered, frowning—he looked as though this was the oddest question that had ever been posed to him. Perhaps from _her,_ it was—she had never so much as asked him to give her the time before now. "It was good. How was—was yours good?"

"Yes," she replied, shortly. "It was…quite pleasant."

"That's—I'm glad," He fiddled with his wand. "Did you…visit anywhere?"

"My brother lives in Cornwall. I spent a week there, with his family."

"Erm…sounds lovely."

She nodded. It _had_ been lovely.

The conversation promptly withered on the vine and left the two of them to stare uncomfortably at one another over its sadly deceased husk.

She pursed her lips. For the first time in her teaching career, Minerva wished that she had some of Horace's talent for _rapprochement_. Certainly it would be helpful now, as she tried, with an ineptitude she had not realized she possessed, to ease her way to the real point. She had actually considered asking the rotund potions master to do this in her stead, but as he had already spoken to the _other_ one…

Besides, Minerva had her pride—and her pride wouldn't allow her to admit that there was something he was better at than her—particularly when it came to managing Gryffindors.

Thankfully Black put her out of her misery.

"You didn't call me in here to talk about my holiday, did you, professor?"

"No—no, I didn't." Relieved, she reverted to the usual brisk, formal tone of voice—and instantly saw he was more at ease with _that_ than he had been by her attempt at _chumminess._ "I've—had a letter about you, Black."

His face twitched with alarm, perhaps—before settling into a smooth blank. That in and of itself told her he had an inkling of what was coming.

"Oh?" he asked, trying to appear only mildly curious. "From whom? About what?"

"It was from Euphemia Potter—about you."

His eyes widened in surprise.

"Mrs. Potter?" Black broke into a smile of relief—but then fresh worry overtook it. "Is everything alright—with her and Mr. P? Nothing's happened?"

McGonagall smiled, in spite of herself.

"She's perfectly well—you can be assured that if there was something amiss, I would be talking to your friend," He nodded, uncertainly. "She and her husband seem to be quite fond of you, Black."

His smile was tremulous.

"They're very good."

"Mrs. Potter's written," she continued, carefully. "About the…recent upheaval in your home situation."

He stayed very still.

"Is there anything you'd like to—discuss with me?"

Black's affection for Potter's parents vanished, replaced with a cool, somewhat haughty expression that she would have dearly liked to tell him she had once seen his father make at school.

"Not particularly," he said, blandly. "Listen, professor, I've got a very lengthy Charms essay I wanted to get cracking on, so I think I'd better be off."

Black started to rise from the chair, but one look from her froze him on the spot.

 _Well, here they went_ …she couldn't say she was surprised. He had never shown an inclination for being forthcoming before now, not about his behavior and certainly not about his home life. She raised her wand hand—free of the aforementioned—and pointed at the chair.

He fell back in it, the legs rocking back with his weight—they made an ugly squeak on the stone floor when they landed.

"Mr. Black, I assure you that I enjoy going down this road even less than you do—"

"I've got a perfect solution for you, then—" he shot back, expression turning ugly. " _Don't_. Don't bother. There's nothing at the end that'll be worth it, trust me."

"I'm afraid it's not that simple."

"Why not?" he said, arms shaking, his face flushed with anger. "What does it _matter_ where I go during the hols? Why should _you_ have to get involved with—" He waved his hand, wildly. "—All _that_."

"I shouldn't need to remind you you are still a student at this school, under my jurisdiction—not to mention _sixteen_."

He stood up again, really furious, hand clenched so hard around his wand that his knuckles were white.

"I'll be of age in _two months_ —!"

"You weren't of age when you flew that broomstick from London to the _West Country_ , Black," she snapped, losing her monumental Scottish temper. "And you aren't of age _now_. Put your wand away this _instant_."

He froze in place.

"She—she told you about that?" he asked, in a small voice, meekly sitting back down in the chair.

"Yes," McGonagall said, her voice returning to its normal, sensible level.

He stuck his wand in his pocket and, shoulders slumped, inched the chair away from her. The revelation that she knew the truth quite diminished him.

"What…else did she tell you?"

"Everything you told her, I expect—that is to say, not much at all." Her eyes flashed dangerously behind square spectacles. "I _do_ know that it's over a hundred miles from London to Dorset, and if anyone should ever find out that an underaged wizard made the trip on a broom—it would be easier for that wizard's professor to help him with his Ministry hearing if she understood the particulars."

His eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"How would they find out unless the wizard's professor told them?"

"Perhaps she already has—or is considering it." He set his jaw. "She _might_ be persuaded not to."

He gave her a long, penetrating look—as if trying to determine if her not-so-veiled threat was a bluff. At long last, he let out a sigh.

"Alright, fine," Black admitted, folding his arms in front of his chest. "As if you didn't already know, I've done a bunk."

He spoke with the crisp RP accent that all old pureblood families fastidiously taught their children, so when phrases like 'done a bunk' (no doubt picked up from Lupin or Pettigrew) came from his lips, it had an air of the faintly ridiculous about it.

"I take it that means—"

"I've run away from home."

She waited for more details—they were not forthcoming.

"What happened?" McGonagall asked, annoyed that it was turning out to be just as much like pulling Venomous Tentacula needles as she had thought it would. "What prompted your…flight?"

"What does _that_ matter?"

"It would be helpful," she said, through gritted teeth. "In assessing your circumstances."

"And what is there to 'assess' about my circumstances, exactly?" he said, churlish.

"Whether they are temporary or permanent, for a start."

Black let out a hard laugh.

"No question it's permanent—and as for the reason," he snorted. "You don't really need much of an excuse to want to get away from _them_."

A dullard could have guessed from the look she gave him that this answer wouldn't do. Professor McGonagall fixed him with her most searching glare, and when he glanced again at the door, the glint in her eyes dared him to even try it.

"Alright, if you insist," he said, finally. "I had a disagreement with my mother and—decided to leave. I'd been thinking about it for a long time, I planned to when I came of age, I just—went a few months early. That's all."

Black, in control of himself again, relayed these supposed events matter-of-factly, nonchalantly, as if the decision had been made with rational forethought, and not by the boy she knew had, on good authority, shown up on the Potters' doorstep—unannounced and soaked through from a torrential downpour south of Guildford—at half past four in the morning.

Her eyes lingered on the nasty curse burn. When he saw where she was looking, they made uncertain eye contact for a second before he blinked and looked away.

"Was it your mother who did that to you?" she asked, quietly.

Black recoiled, as if he'd been burned again.

"Of course not," he mumbled, staring moodily down at a hangnail on his thumb. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I think you're lying."

"Even if—even if she _had,_ " he sputtered, furiously, looking up at her. "It's all over now, and—why stir it up? It doesn't _matter_ —"

"If you've left your parents' house because your mother has taken to _hexing_ you, it matters a great deal," she said, slowly, as if speaking to one soft in the head. "Especially considering you have a younger brother still at home."

"Regulus has _nothing_ to do with this. With _any_ of it," he insisted, a touch of alarm in his voice, and Black sat up straighter, put his hands on her desk and leaned forward. "You can keep him well out of it."

"It's too late for that," she said, briskly. "As I've already informed Professor Slughorn, who spoke to the younger Mr. Black directly."

Black looked as though he'd swallowed a lemon.

"You did _what_?" he yelped. "Why the _bloody_ hell would you do a thing like _that_?"

" _Language_ ," she scolded, and he suppressed a string of even fouler profanity and merely glowered at his professor. "And I felt it my responsibility to inform him as a colleague. If it's any comfort, your brother is apparently more reticent than even you—his head-of-house, with whom he usually gets along _so_ well, could get nothing but _monosyllable_ from the boy."

Black said nothing, instead screwing up his face in a look of intense and rather childish hostility. She restrained herself from asking if obstinacy had been taught to them by their parents, or was just something Regulus had picked up from years of observing his elder brother at close quarters.

"Perhaps if the four of us were to meet, along with the Headmaster—"

"No! Absolutely _not._ "

He'd stood up again, and the horror on his face at the mere thought was so acute she was actually startled.

"What do you suggest, then?"

"Leaving _well enough alone_!" he cried.

As she watched him pace up and down in front of the desk, quite agitated, Professor McGonagall thought, wistfully, of the remedial Transfiguration classes she'd had to endure with Wembleton Withers, the worst student she'd ever had. _Anything_ was better than this.

She cleared her throat and Black's head snapped to attention.

"Think of the position you've put me in. Not knowing the real reason for your departure—I am forced to assume the worst. Nothing need happen if one of you is honest," she paused, and then continued, more gently. "I rather hoped it would be you."

He stared down at her, his face now ashen, hands trembling.

"My mother has never touched a _hair_ on Reg's _head_ ," he said, finally, voice dripping with a hard disdain she'd never heard from him. "So you can tell old Slughorn he needn't worry about his favorite pet Black."

"I won't put it quite that way," she said, tartly. "I notice you didn't include yourself in that assurance."

"I _told_ you, it's nothing—and it's not as though I didn't earn it." He flung the chair back and sank into it again. "Besides—they're not the kind of people to _break_ what they think belongs to them, my parents. That's not why I left."

She knew—as far as Walburga Black's disciplinary tactics were concerned, at least—she would get no more from him than that. Did it even _occur_ to him that he was protecting his mother, or was it subconscious?

"Then why did you?" she pressed.

"Because…because I'd had _enough_ —"

"That is not an _answer_ , Black."

"Well, it's the only one you're getting, so unless you want to spend all afternoon sitting here—"

"—I am _well prepared_ to do so!"

Minerva and her student stared daggers at each other. Breathing hard, it was as if they were two heavyweights competing for a title, each recovering in their respective corners of a muggle boxing ring.

"Why are you even _doing_ this?" he demanded, breaking the silence that had done nothing to quail his anger—it had only stoked the flames of his gunpowder temper. "Nobody's put you up to it, I'm sure—certainly _they_ haven't. It's not part of your job, to stick your nose in where you haven't been asked, and aren't wanted. I can tell it's a chore for you, and anyway, what does it really _matter_?"

She let this extraordinary speech hang in the air for a moment, and then, wordlessly, she pulled the letter from the corner of the desk. Not looking at him, she read aloud from the middle of the first page:

 _"'—It's hardly my place to write you, Minerva, but I'm convinced no one else will—is it wrong that I should feel the need to be his advocate, when he's had such a rough time? I only hope you'll be patient with Sirius this term. For as much as he's been happy with us the past two weeks, I know him to be a far more sensitive boy than he lets on. We are delighted to have him, but I worry. Sirius won't tell us anything more about what happened. When he warned me not to owl them because I'd be likely to get a curse back, at first I thought he was joking—but he didn't laugh. You will talk to him, won't you? I know the boys both tease you, but they're only high-spirited—I believe Sirius is quite fond of you, and I think an ear from his favorite professor would do him a world of good.'"_

When she finished, Minerva neatly refolded the note and tossed it back on her desk. Black, glassy-eyed, face pink, stared at something over her left shoulder, looking more abashed than she had ever seen him. He gave off the distinct impression—it had come, unbidden, to her mind, and she could not shake it—of a labrador with his tail between his legs.

"I hope you didn't shout at Euphemia Potter about—how was it you put it?" she asked, dryly. "'Sticking her nose in where she isn't wanted'?"

"That was—bang out of line." He shifted his gaze from the stone wall behind her shoulder to the broach pinned to her hat. "I'm sorry, Professor McGonagall."

Black's hangdog look was a surprising balm to her own temper.

"I accept your apology. I look forward to you making up for your _abominable_ rudeness in your detention tomorrow night." He groaned. "What an honor it is to play host to your first of the year."

Sirius pulled a face, chastened—but there was a smile lurking beneath.

"Do you have any other bombs to drop on me?" he asked, contritely.

Considering the momentary lull of peace, she heartily regretted that her father's ironclad morals, fastidiously cultivated, should now demand she tell him the truth.

"I've written to your parents."

"Well, that was a waste of parchment."

She'd expected him to make another scene, but he only laughed.

"Should I be on the lookout for a curse in the post, Black?" she asked, one eyebrow raised.

"She wouldn't dare, not with you—" He answered, tone suggesting that he would be amused if his mother tried it. "It's just…you know they won't read it."

"These matters are not always so open and shut, Black."

"No, you don't understand!" he said, frustrated, running a hand through his hair. "By now she'll already have taken me off the—I couldn't—" his voice broke. "I couldn't return to Grimmauld Place, even I _wanted_ to."

"I'm certain that's not true—"

"It _is_ , believe me. I'm never setting _foot_ in that house again, do you understand?" he cut her off, angrily. "I'm never going back. _Never._ "

Black spoke with an absolute certainty—the kind you only had once, before life knocked it out of you. Hadn't _she_ been just as certain when Dougal McGregor had gotten down on one knee and asked her to make him the happiest farmer in Caithness? All it had taken was one sleepless night to poison her certainty, muddy the waters of that pure spring of conviction. When she had risen from bed and gone to break the engagement that had given her that fleeting rush of euphoria, never to be repeated—she was a wiser woman.

Making a choice was as much shutting the door as opening it—Minerva knew that now.

He didn't.

" _Never_ is a very long time," she said to him, evenly. "And you, forgive me, are very young. You may not always feel exactly the way you do now—about any of this."

"I know my _feelings_ won't change." His eyes gleamed with intensity. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

Minerva saw the change clearly in that moment.

It was as if the unseen weight had been lifted, and, free from that, buoyancy had raised him up. He was on cloud nine, and the only thing keeping him from rising high above them all were people _like_ her who knew better, who knew that he would not be able to cut the strings of the past so easily. No one could.

He had what he thought was freedom, and she was trying to take it away.

"And anyway, I thought you'd be _pleased_. Now that I'm not going to be inheriting a mountain-high pile of gold, I'm going to have to buckle down and actually _work_."

That he would bring up their disastrous career session of the previous term was somehow the most unlikely turn of all.

"I have a feeling for you, academic 'buckling down' may be more a symbolic gesture than a reality."

He smirked.

"You saw my OWL results, then, did you?"

Seven "Outstandings" and two "Exceeds Expectations", and she'd seen neither hide nor hair of him in the library all last year.

"I did indeed," she said, dryly. "I would alter your expression, Black, if you want the congratulations you obviously feel you so richly deserve."

His smile drooped.

"Oh, come on—a 'good job' wouldn't go amiss for my Transfiguration marks." Feeling bold, he nudged her across the desk. "That was the whole reason I pulled it off, the prospect of you giving me a compliment."

"Oh, _really—_!" She rolled her eyes. "As if I ever had even the slightest doubt you'd get full marks in Transfiguration. You and Potter are miles ahead of my NEWT class and you _know_ it."

He put both hands behind his head and leaned back in the chair, the cut on his face making him look even more cocksure than usual.

"Do you _want_ a second detention?" The legs dropped to the ground with a loud clunk. "Or have you just grown very fond of these chats of ours?"

"'Course I am, professor."

She felt, with no small relief—that something of the air between them had cleared. He would never thank her for asking after him in her own clumsy way—she would not know what to say if he did—but at least, for this small moment, they had a modicum of mutual understanding.

Would that it were _more_ than a moment.

"Now that you are to be a man of _trade_ , seeking your fortune in the world," she remarked, ironically. "I take it you have some job in mind?"

"I want to fight dark wizards."

She blinked, slowly.

"Are you saying you wish to become an Auror?"

Sirius Black—the scion of a family with high-born aspirations and as murky a past as any, likely connections to You-Know-Who—Sirius Black, forever getting into trouble, breaking rules, nearly expelled last year—Sirius Black, clever, daring, reckless Black—an _Auror_?

Absurd, outlandish—very unlikely. And then she thought of old Alastor Moody.

 _He had the stomach for it, at least._

"Right, well—that's what I wanted to talk to you about," he said, with a lopsided smile. "I've been informed by reliable sources that you've got to do another two years of classes before the Ministry lets you—ah, loose."

"Your sources are correct."

"And there's no chance of an accelerated time table for that, is there?" he said, a hopeful lilt in his voice. "For the truly gifted, mind."

"Not that I'm aware of," she said, uneasily.

"Hm. That's tricky, devilishly tricky."

She folded her hands before her on the desk.

"To become an Auror is a very serious commitment, Black, and not for the faint of heart—but you certainly are on track for the NEWTs that would be required. You would then need to apply at the Ministry, be in the training program—I don't have the information in front of me, I think it's eighteen months—and then you'd have to pass field and written exams, not to mention a character test—"

"That'll all take too long!" He flapped his hands, dismissively. "I don't need four more years of school to learn to fight."

She suspected he didn't think he needed any more years of school.

Purpose. That was the other thing he had now that he hadn't before—a sense of purpose.

She felt uneasiness as she looked at her student—shining, glorious future reflected in his too-bright eyes. _Purpose_ was all well and good, but purpose unchecked could go astray so easily, could become ambition or reckless stupidity—or something even more dangerous.

Minerva had long wished for him to make something of himself. Only now did it occur to her that she might not like what he chose.

"For someone with your abilities and determination, there may be…less conventional avenues for pursuing your—particular goals."

He sat up, interest peaked, and she regretted even the _vague_ inference, for she could see that the wondrous promise of something illicit would be forever lodged in his brain.

Already he would have heard whispers of what Dumbledore was up to.

"I would advise you to investigate the requirements of the _Auror_ training program thoroughly before you make any final decisions." He nodded—that old nod she recognized as perfunctory. She could tell he was already dismissing Auror training as a tedious bureaucratic roadblock that would only slow someone as clever as him down. "I would be glad to—write you a recommendation, if you should need it."

"You really mean that, Professor McGonagall?"

His look was too sly by half.

"Well, I'd consider it, anyway," she amended. "Didn't you have a terribly challenging Charms essay you needed to write, Mr. Black?"

Grinning, he stood up.

"Thanks for reminding me, professor." To her great chagrin, he swept her a bow—she supposed it was meant to be gallant, if one was being generous. Now she _knew_ he was back to normal. "I'll see you in class on—Friday, then?"

"You'll see me in your detention tomorrow evening." He skidded to a halt three-quarters of the way to the door. "Back here in this office. You're going to assist me in grading the second-year term essays on switching spells."

"Really, professor?" He gave a revolted face. "Seems a bit extreme. I only told you not to stick your nose in it, it's not as if I said you should stick your _wand_ —"

"—I suggest you hurry back to Gryffindor Tower, Black," she interrupted, sternly. "Before you're tempted to finish that sentence."

Flashing her another apologetic smile—eyes twinkling—he hurried out of the room.

Rubbing her temples, she folded up Euphemia Potter's letter and pulled open the lower drawer of her desk. Tucking it in a small file marked _PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE,_ she shut the drawer again.

Well. That hadn't been _so_ painful. Of course, it wasn't as though she'd been expecting a scene, tears—not from him.

But she _had_ let him off the hook, hadn't she, for despite her threats, she had no intention of asking Dumbledore to intervene or even relaying this conversation, what Black had told her or what she read between the lines. She was sure the headmaster had an inkling already, he always knew more than he let on—but she wasn't going to send the Blacks up to his office to _chat_ about it.

Black had done a fair bit to convince her of his case, in the end—he would weather it. He'd been right, he _would_ be of age in two months. There came a certain point where there was nothing more she could do for them—for any of them.

Still…her efforts, however feeble, had the intended effect.

At the very least, Horace Slughorn couldn't have done better.


	3. January 1979 - Wedding

You weren't supposed to play favorites.

That realization had been one of her first hurdles when she began teaching at Hogwarts at the tender age of twenty—and it was a hard-won victory, for it was not her natural inclination to be _patient_. Minerva McGonagall did not suffer fools gladly. Naturally clever and hard-working, with a rigorous sense of right and wrong, it had taken some time for _Professor_ McGonagall to understand just what a rarity that combination was. She could not reasonably expect such qualities in all—or even most—of her students.

Minerva had been reliably told that beneath her stern exterior she had an 'idealistic' streak. It was true, her love of fairness was a foundational principle, one of the most deeply-held values she possessed. The father she idolized had instilled it in her as a girl, and she believed it really was her duty as a teacher to encourage _every_ student, no matter how apparently talentless or slow.

This was _not_ a belief all of her colleagues shared.

"Ah—she's beautiful, truly _beautiful_." The foghorn-like sound of a nose being blown caused a few heads to turn in their direction. "I always cry at weddings."

"I would have never guessed," she replied, and rather than offending, her sarcasm elicited a loud guffaw from the man at her side. He was rotund, dressed in a resplendent set of purple velvet robes, and (much to McGonagall's embarrassment) had not stopped weeping since the ceremony had ended an hour before.

"No soft touch, are you, Minerva?" Horace Slughorn finished mopping his eyes and, perhaps for the purpose of consoling himself, plucked another shrimp canapé off a tray floating in mid-air. "Wish I had _your_ heart of iron."

"Why? It wouldn't suit you in the slightest," Minerva McGonagall replied, turning to the man who had been her colleague for over two decades—and who, despite her noblest efforts, she had never liked as much as she felt she should.

Some personalities, rather like wormwood and antimony, did not do well together. If Professor Slughorn felt the same way about Minerva, however, he'd never shown it. When he wasn't crying over the bride, the potions master had spent half the ceremony furtively name-dropping people he recognized in her ear.

He'd been impossible to shake all day, and after several champagne toasts and a generous sherry, she found it difficult to hide her irritation.

"Just look at her!" Large mustache bristling, he tugged at her elbow and pointed across the room. "I'd wager twenty galleons you've never seen a prettier bride."

She followed his gaze to the sweetheart's table at the front of the glittering reception hall.

Horace was right, of course—Lily _was_ beautiful.

It was hard to believe the young woman in the dazzling white gown, her dark red hair in an elegant twist at the nape of her neck, had _ever_ been Minerva's student, never-mind that she had graduated from Hogwarts just a few months earlier. She was so grown up, sitting across from her new husband—and as for _him_ —well, she'd never seen such a transformation. James Potter was gazing so fixedly on Lily you'd have thought she was the only other person in the room.

It was a far cry from the troublemaking rascal who'd spent so much of his time in school showing off.

No, she never cried at weddings. She didn't see the sense in carrying on over something that was, after all, as commonplace as childbearing and death, and she wasn't the kind of woman who went to pieces over any silly sentimental thing that crossed her.

If her eyes had gone a little misty when the vicar had told the groom that he could kiss his new wife, that was hardly worth bringing up, was it?

"She _is_ lovely," Minerva agreed, briskly. Horace snorted again—that one word didn't do his favorite justice, but he took the admission he was right from McGonagall as a victory and conveniently missed when she lightly dabbed at her eyes. "They both are."

"I only hope young Potter knows what a special girl he's taken on," Slughorn murmured, eying James with suspicion. "And that Lily hasn't thrown herself away."

Considering how utterly besotted she looked, there was little chance of that.

"Really, Horace—" She rolled her eyes. "The way you talk, you'd think _no one_ was good enough for Lily Evans."

"Well, it's the truth, isn't it?"

"I'd half been expecting you to claim you'd engineered the match yourself," she said, impatiently.

James Potter was exactly the kind of student Horace generally _adored_ —rich, talented, from an old family—so that he had mixed feelings about the union struck her as odd. Of course, Lily _was_ a particular favorite—and James was one of _two_ recent students Slughorn had reason to be annoyed about.

In their very first week of school Horace had seen Sirius Black and James Potter for what they were—bright and charismatic, a pair that magnified each other's talents—and had spent seven years trying to entice them into his social club of hand-picked favorites. The boys' complete lack of interest in being his protégées had frustrated the wily Head of Slytherin House to no end.

Black and Potter giving him the runaround had amused her, she could admit that now.

"Oh, well—I daresay young James could shape up, if he doesn't rest on old Monty's laurels. He has potential. Have to say, though…" His eyes darted about the room doubtfully. "It's not what one would have expected."

"What do you mean?"

"Well…I had thought…" He lowered his voice and glanced around, as if fearing they'd be overheard. "For the Potters it all does seem a bit…shabby."

When she looked around the room, Minerva saw immediately why _he_ would think that. It wasn't squalid _,_ but there _was_ something subdued about the entire affair—small clumps of people speaking in hushed tones—too hushed for a celebratory occasion. Ten years ago, the wedding of the only son of celebrated potioneer Fleamont Potter would've been packed with every famous magical personage in the land, a raucous shindig—not this modest service with only fifty guests. Perhaps it wasn't what the groom or his parents had wished for, either.

Wizards and witches weren't venturing out for social gatherings much these days.

The Potters' was a war wedding—Minerva recognized the signs. She'd been to enough of them as a girl, before she'd gotten her letter, before Hogwarts. Her father had always said that you could tell a war wedding because the only people who looked just as they should—as carefree, as _ebullient_ as they would if they were marrying on the most peaceful June day imaginable—were the bride and groom.

Lily and James had been glowing all day, as for the rest—a pall of uneasiness hung over them, as if this was borrowed, stolen happiness.

"You and I have a different definition of 'shabby', Horace," she said, at last.

"That's probably true. And it couldn't really be, not with Lily here…I have missed her," he said, wistfully. "She was part of a talented crop. Course—" He elbowed Minerva good-naturedly. "Didn't seem like you were sad to see the back of them, were you?"

She was still looking around the hall at the pockets of whispering guests, when, on cue, a pair of intelligent gray eyes met hers. There was a moment of recognition—a wink, and then a familiar insolent smile, and were she in her animagus form, she probably would have raised her back and hissed.

A good-looking young man she had _not_ been sorry to see the back of broke off his conversation with the elderly Mr. and Mrs. Potter and, to her chagrin, made a beeline for them. His eyes darted between her and Horace with distinct amusement. Minerva wished she had some of her father's famous whiskey to fortify her strength.

Sirius Black looked far too pleased with himself.

" _Horace_ , old boy!" Black bellowed, clapping his former potions professor on the shoulder. "Smashing to see you, simply smashing! You're looking marvelous. Do my eyes deceive, or are you slimmer round the middle?"

Slughorn laughed, his gigantic belly jiggling like the popular Muggle depictions of Father Christmas, and tweaked Black on the nose.

"You've got the very devil in you, Sirius—" He waved one large finger with feigned disapproval. "I can see you're as much a rogue as ever! What've you been up to since last spring, eh?"

"I think that's something we'd all like to know," McGonagall interjected, tartly. Sirius turned round on her, and gave a start of surprise.

"My dear fellow," he staged whispered to Slughorn. "I don't believe I've met your rather charming companion. Dare I—is it too much to hope for an introduction?"

"Like playing with fire, do you?" Slughorn snickered into his drink, and Black answered him by sticking his arm out in her direction.

"Sirius Black. Charming wedding, wasn't it?" She didn't take the proffered hand—she had an odd feeling if she did Black would kiss it. "Best man—but I'm sure that's obvious."

She had never been so irritated at a wink in her life.

"We've met before," she replied, dryly, eyeing his hand with suspicion.

"Have we? You do look a bit like someone I used to know—" He squinted at her face. "Definitely have a similar _glare_ …"

"Your wit remains as _astounding_ as ever, Mr. Black."

Sirius gaped, theatrically, and Horace, to her immense annoyance, _clapped_.

 _As if he needs any_ more _encouragement._

"Oh—it _is_ you! It has been a while." He looked between his two professors—one of whom surveyed him as one would a rambunctious nephew, the other more like a shoplifting truant. "I didn't recognize you in your—dress togs."

He looked her up and down appreciatively. Minerva's mouth thinned in disapproval, but before she could reply Slughorn loudly cleared his throat.

"Now, now—I can see what you're doing! You're trying to change the subject, to get away from me, but I won't _let_ you." Slughorn put an arm around Sirius and tugged him closer. "I asked around the Ministry about you, Sirius, and I have it on good authority they've not seen a _whiff._ Why would _that_ be, hm?"

Black's smile fell. He seemed significantly less amused at the turn the conversation had taken.

"You know how it is…there weren't any openings in departments I'd be interested in," he said, evasively.

Horace blew a raspberry of disbelief, spraying champagne bubbles all over Minerva's hat.

"Nonsense, boy! Your name? You have your pick of the lot." Slughorn's grip around his shoulder tightened. "I think your grandfather Arcturus stills sits on the Wizengamot, doesn't he? Remarkable, at his age."

"I think if granddad saw me walk into the courtroom, he'd make a motion for a vote of no confidence," Black said, dryly.

Slughorn laughed, gainfully ignoring the heavy sarcasm.

"Well, if you don't fancy government, what about something at Gringotts—lots of treasure hunting, seems in your line. Winston Fawley—Ravenclaw, class of '60—is the head of their foreign bureau, I could easily set you up with—"

"—Oh, look, professor," Black interrupted, deftly slipping out from under Slughorn's arm. Minerva noticed how seamlessly he had slipped into the deferential—and in this case, more expedient—attitude of the student. "I think Lily wants to speak with you—see?"

James and Lily had broken off their conversation and were now waving furiously in their direction—clearly beckoning Black to join them. He waved back, pointed theatrically at Horace behind his back—Lily suppressed a giggle in her hand while James, at her side, looked less enthused.

"Ah—does she?" Horace turned his head and met his pet student's eyes—she had lowered her hand and looked dignified, now. Potter was still giving Black a half-hearted glower. "She does! I'll just—excuse me, I'll see you both in a moment."

And he trundled over to the bride and groom, clapping his hands in delight at the prospect of dictating the future careers of the couple's children.

McGonagall and her former student watched him descend upon the couple. When Horace had managed to steal away the attention of the bride from her annoyed new husband, Sirius turned back to her.

" _Horace Slughorn_?" He pulled a face. "Come on, you can do much better than that."

"We both came from _Hogwarts_ , Black," she said, severely. "That doesn't mean we came _together_."

"O-ho." His eyes twinkled wickedly. "So what you're saying is you're—unattached."

There was something about him that had always demanded severity, and yet—she did not want to meet his expectation for it now.

"You can start by fetching me a drink," she said, glibly. "And we'll see where the evening takes us."

It had been worth it for the expression of shock on his face before he burst out laughing. He plucked the cup from her hand and walked it over to the punch bowl, a bounce in his step.

Black handed her back the brimming glass with a smile.

She had the idle thought that that cheeky grin of his probably worked.

 _More's the pity._

"Cheers— _Minerva_." Black savored her given name—she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of calling him an impudent scamp for using it. "How'd you like my speech?"

"I liked—parts."

There had been far too many sly asides—she did not need Pettigrew's shrill, muffled giggles to notice them, though it had helped—to things she did not even want to consider that they had gotten away with in school, and Minerva did not appreciate being used as a minor prop in his string of juvenile anecdotes ( _"I ask that all former educators of the couple take a walk around the town square, lest they be tempted to ex post-facto expel the groom_ …")

"Only _parts_?" he repeated, insulted. "Which parts?"

Despite her misgivings, the sincere affection her felt for the couple was unmistakable. When he had finally raised his glass to the newly minted Mr. and Mrs. James Potter, there was scarcely a dry eye in the room.

"It was what I've come to expect, Mr. Black," she said, evenly.

 _Brilliant in spite of you._

"That's not encouraging, coming from you," he laughed, raising his tumbler to her again. "And there's no need to stand on ceremony—you can call me Sirius, if you'd like."

"I'll bear that in mind." She took another sip of punch and watched him closely over the rim of her glass. "What _have_ you been up to these past months?"

"'Up to' is a bit of loaded phrase, isn't it?" he asked, suddenly wary.

"How have you been occupying your time, then, if you prefer," she amended, smoothly.

"Ah—with nothing much." He shrugged his shoulders, a studied lack of concern on his face. "A little bit of this, a little bit of that— _you know_."

"I don't."

Black's smile didn't quite meet his eyes.

In the months since he'd left school, Sirius Black had _not_ undergone the same miraculous transformation as his best friend. Oh, he'd grown out his hair, had put on a bit of muscle— he was no longer _playing_ at the dangerous pose he'd struck in his school days—but she remained uneasy. He might've _looked_ the part of a fully grown young wizard, like James…

But he hadn't lost the boyish air of self-satisfaction.

"I _had_ expected an owl from you with a request for a recommendation, as we discussed."

Black downed his glass of punch and scowled good-naturedly.

"We could just talk like two normal people, you know," he said, a touch of impatience in his voice. "And skip the bit about me not 'living up to my potential'. I got enough of that from you in school."

"It doesn't appear to have touched you very deeply."

He doubled over, miming an arrow shooting him square in the chest.

"That hurts, you know," he said, clutching at his chest in pain. "You _wound_ me."

Considering how sober and subdued the rest of the wedding guests were—even James and Lily's bliss was a quiet, private one—there was something faintly indecent about Black's high-spirits. He was practically bouncing up and down with coiled energy, like the jack-in-the-box her younger brothers had played with as children—ready to spring at moment's notice.

War, apparently, suited him.

He staggered to his feet, savoring her look of extreme disapproval.

"Come on, Minerva—it's a _wedding_. Let down your hair for a night…" he trailed off, suggestively. "You're unattached, I'm unattached…"

"And why _is_ that, precisely?"

The grin dropped off his face.

"Sorry—what?"

"Why is it that you're…" She paused, significantly. " _Unattached_?"

Black raised both eyebrows so far they disappeared into his hairline.

"A bit forward, aren't you?"

She was starting to feel the punch.

"I see you can 'dish it out,'" she said, taking another sip, enjoying the way his lip twitched, as if he couldn't quite tell if she was joking. "But aren't capable of—what is the phrase…'taking it'?"

"Is this your idea of making _smalltalk_?" he asked, incredulous. "Asking me about my—love life?"

"I believe it's common practice at social functions to inquire about such things—" Black, she was pleased to see, now looked unsettled, even alarmed. "—Or was I misunderstanding you when you said you wished to be spoken to like a 'normal' person?"

"Well—that is—" he sputtered. "I don't ask if you have a _boyfriend_."

"You intimated you thought Horace Slughorn was me selling myself short," she retorted, setting her punch glass down on the table.

They stared each other down for a long moment—

"Alright, fair enough," he leaned against the table, still looking sideways at her, unsure. "You just—caught me off guard, that's all. Didn't figure you as being interested—"

"I take an interest in _all_ aspects of my students' lives, Black—I am here, after all." She glanced over at the young couple, then back to him. "And while they're wasted on me, I'm sure your—er, _charms_ are not without effect."

He fought back the urge to laugh.

"You might—" she continued, against her better judgement. "Even be described as not _altogether_ bad-looking."

"Are you saying you think I'm handsome, Professor McGonagall?"

He was so delighted he forgot to call her by her Christian name _._

"It does make one wonder why you're standing around chatting with your old Transfiguration teacher," she said, wryly.

Black shrugged.

"You're the most interesting woman here, and anyway— _girls_ ," He dismissed half the human race airily. "Who has time for _that_?"

She stared pointedly over Black's shoulder at James, now trying unsuccessfully to shake off his old potions professor, whose gigantic presence was slowly edging him out of his own wedding dinner. He now had to crane his neck around Horace's arm to see Lily—who was fighting smile at his expense.

"Your friend Potter seems to have found some."

"Yeah—poor devil."

"Lily has been a good influence on him," she observed, pointedly.

The suggestion that James had needed a 'good influence' irritated Black, but he masked it with another shrug.

"I suppose she's alright—if you like that sort of thing."

He didn't elaborate on what 'that sort of thing' was—she supposed he meant beautiful and talented witches who drew mens' attention away from their imbecilic friends. Black wasn't fooling her with his supposed antipathy, though—when Sirius had said that Lily was the best thing that had ever happened to James, the bride had actually gotten out of her chair and ran to embrace him, and when she kissed the best man on the cheek he had turned rather pink.

"You two seem to have gotten quite close since leaving school," she observed, gently. "You and Ms. Evans."

"Mrs. Potter," he corrected, with utmost dignity. "Lily and I have come to—an understanding. She's not so hard to manage, when you get the trick of it. I think the three of us will do very well together."

"I didn't realize you had an official role in the new household." Her voice was laden with irony.

"Of course," he said, smirking. "And to think _you_ said I couldn't turn following James Potter around into a career."

He regretted the words the second they were out of his mouth.

Realizing his error, he leaned farther back on the table and looked around the other way.

Now that Black had brought them back around to the subject of his post-Hogwarts prospects quite by accident, she wasn't about to let it go.

"I was—surprised to hear you didn't enter the Auror training program in the fall."

"Look, I—" He ran a hand through his hair, agitatedly. "I looked into it, and decided it didn't suit."

"In what respect?"

"Just—the _things_ they wanted—"

"Was it the order, the discipline, established protocol—" Minerva felt the heat rise in her face. "—Or necessary _punctuality_ you objected to?"

"It takes two years to get through!" he replied, voice tight and defensive. "And even if I wanted to, as if I'd pass the exams for it—"

"You never _once_ failed an exam set to you in seven years," she snapped. "I've never heard such an outrageously flimsy excuse in all my—"

"I never had to take a bloody _character assessment_ in Transfiguration, did I?"

Black's shoulders shook with barely suppressed anger, and he gripped the wand barely visibly under his robes so tightly it looked as though he might snap it in half.

For a moment—very brief—she didn't quite recognize him.

"No—you didn't," she said, faintly.

The clump of people closest to them stared. He remembered himself.

"…It's for the best, trust me." Black was breathing hard, as if he'd just run a race."Nobody but you wants me anywhere near the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

It took him a few more shallow breaths for him to regain his composure—and for her to fully register what he'd said.

"What does _that_ mean?" She gave him a piercing stare. "Six months out of school, have you _already_ managed to attract the attention of Barty Crouch?"

His head snapped up—alarmed, there was a flicker of disquiet in his eyes. Minerva frowned.

"Of course not." The skin around Black's jaw tightened. "Why would you bring Crouch up?"

The frown lines between her eyes grew more pronounced.

"The Auror Office is under his purview, after all." He stuck his hands in his pockets, smile unusually grim. "You know him?"

"No—not really," he answered, shortly. "He's about the same age as my father— _he_ knows him. There's not much love lost there, I can tell you that much."

Minerva's frown deepened. Black was taking the suggestion he might have some personal stain that would make him unfit to be an Auror seriously—and she had been joking.

"'Course, I can't really blame Crouch for that, can I?" Sirius continued, staring off at where the elderly Potters were now laughing together, a mirror image of their son and daughter-in-law. "Not much love lost between my father and I, come to think of it."

He had the same hard look on his face he'd gotten when Horace had brought up his grandfather. Black tapped his finger on the table, restively.

"How's my brother doing?"

She raised both eyebrows at the abrupt subject change.

"Well enough."

"How're his Transfiguration marks? He always was rubbish—"

"If you're truly interested, you ought to ask Professor Slughorn," she said, studying him closely. He was not looking at her. "He sees more of him than I do—"

"I'd rather hear it from you."

"Many people _write_ when they want family news," she said, calmly.

His face flushed.

"Like he'd even bother to read it," he said, without humor. He pulled a flask from his pocket and refilled his glass with an amber liquid far stronger than the champagne cocktail. "Forget it. I don't care, anyway."

The words had a false quality, as if not even he believed them; he downed the drink in one.

"Being formally disinherited has _some_ perks," he continued, conversationally, haughtily studying the bottom of his empty glass. "It's a full-time job, rubbing other people's noses in it. My parents _work_ at it, I never had the patience for that—or the time."

"Not with your busy career and social calendar, naturally."

He let out short, hard laugh.

"I'm sorry, professor—I thought it'd be easier for us to get on, now that I'm not your charge—old habits, though." Carelessly, he tossed his empty glass on the table. It rolled, lazily, across the crinoline tablecloth. "Having a falling out at a wedding is probably bad luck."

"I had no intention of quarreling with you." she said, suddenly feeling tired. "I merely thought your wish was to fight dark wizards. That's all."

"It is," he said, quietly. "But you don't have to be an Auror to do _that_."

He tilted his head, gave her a suggestive, sly look—and a dangerous suspicion she'd been harboring all day plucked at her elbow again.

During her audience with the couple, when she had asked, James had joked that Lily was a full-time job, but _she_ had fixed her bright green eyes on her Transfiguration professor and assured her she was keeping James out of trouble, and please to not worry about them too much. She had thought it an odd thing for Lily to say at her wedding, and then…

When she'd bumped into Remus Lupin—the fourth of Potter's schoolyard quartet—it hadn't taken them long to land on his dismal job prospects. Given Lupin's condition, she was not surprised—but he had been evasive when she asked how he was keeping himself busy—only assuring her, with an opaque smile, that he was. Then she'd cornered Peter Pettigrew, never a favorite (no doubt that was why he'd been avoiding her all day) and he stammered out a cock-and-bull story about waiting tables at the Hog's Head—what a bald-faced lie, as if he even had the nerve to _enter_ the Hog's Head—

It didn't make sense. They couldn't _all_ be unemployed.

James Potter's gang of schoolboy acolytes weren't just sitting around, twiddling their thumbs.

 _Unless—_

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes you do," Black countered, immediately. "You're the last person alive who can pull off playing stupid—don't pretend you didn't suspect—"

" _Lower your voice, Black_ ," she hissed.

He straightened up and looked at her, expression now deadly serious. At some point in his sixth year he'd had a second growth spurt, and so he was rather taller than McGonagall, looking at her, by definition, meant he was looking down. It made her feel older than anything else that had happened today did.

And she _wasn't_ old.

"You really didn't know."

She said nothing. He didn't bother asking if she was pleased, shock had given way to the old standby—disapproval, and Minerva was sure her expression made that fairly obvious.

Nobody knew exactly who was in the Order of the Phoenix—that was part of Albus's plan, to draw Death Eaters out by using their own tactic of absolute secrecy against them—but she had suspicions about the roster, had heard whispers. Elphias Doge. Alastor Moody. Edgar Bones. Old friends of his, the men and women who had been on the front lines of the fight for the proceeding decade.

Was it naive of her not to have seen this coming?

"I thought—" He turned on his heel towards her, and continued, in a low voice, "I thought you and Dumbledore…"

Of course he didn't need a letter of introduction from her.

Albus must've known she wouldn't approve.

"I didn't," she admitted, finally. "But it explains a great deal."

"Now you understand about the—Auror training, and everything."

"I understand." She closed her eyes and sighed. "I only hope you know what you're doing."

She opened them again, and his flashed with that old impatience—the look he always gave her when she suggested there was a spell he needed to work on, an area of Transfiguration he had not have mastered yet. The _oh, yeah? You think?_ look.

"I'm a grown man—" he said, voice heavy with the determination of youth. "—Of course I know what I'm doing."

That he was a grown man she could not deny, even if nineteen hardly seemed _grown_ to her anymore—but she'd been only a little older than that when she'd started teaching at Hogwarts, heartache at her broken engagement still very fresh. If she'd married Dougal she'd have been a bride of Lily's age.

No, it was the part about him knowing what he was doing she had difficulty with.

"Oi! Padfoot!"

Both of them turned their heads just as James—scowling—marched over to them.

"Yes, darling?"

James grabbed Sirius around the neck and put him in a headlock.

"What's the big idea, sending Sluggy over?" he said, ruffling Black's perfect hair; they tussled like schoolboys. His friend laughed and elbowed him in the stomach. "I thought I'd _never_ escape."

"What, you're not enjoying him?" Sirius laughed, and as he pulled away from James he knocked into McGonagall. Potter turned to her and gave her an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, professor—this one been bothering you?" He jabbed a thumb in Sirius's direction. "I can tell him to clear off."

"That won't be necessary," she answered, dryly—looking between them at two identical smiles. "We've been…catching up."

"Oh." James was intrigued. "Did Sirius tell you about his flying motor—"

Black jabbed the groom in stomach again and hissed something in his ear.

"Alright—I thought you got it _registered—"_

Black muttered something else in his friend's ear and straightened.

"As a matter of fact, James, I was just about to ask our illustrious former Head of House if she would do me the honor of a dance."

The string quartet had struck up a lively tune; several people, including Mr. and Mrs. Potter, had shuffled out to the middle of the floor and were dancing. Minerva saw over James's shoulder that Lily was trying to coax Horace out, he was waving her off with the excuse of his rheumatism—though he looked quite pleased with himself that she had asked.

She turned back to Black: he was watching her expectantly.

"How about it, Minerva?"

He held out his arm. If he had made the offer when he first walked up to her, Minerva was sure she would have accepted without question. The truth now stood stood like a barrier between them.

The moment she accepted he was grown up was the moment she no longer felt she could play with him.

"I don't think I could keep up with you, Mr. Black," she said, wryly. "I never could."

"She admits it at last."

He lowered his arm somberly, as if declaring defeat.

It occurred to her that she had no idea when they would next meet under these circumstances—if, indeed, they ever would.

"Next time," Professor McGonagall promised.

It took speaking the words for her to realize she meant them.

"I'm holding you to that."

She barely registered the rest of what James said to her—light-hearted teasing, a promise to write more often, entreaties for her to admit she missed them—before he and Black scampered off, leaving her alone with only her jumbled thoughts for company.

"Gave you the slip, did he?"

Minerva started at the familiar voice in her ear.

"I don't know what you mean, Horace," she said, stiffly, as Professor Slughorn waddled back towards her. Lily must've used her considerable expertise to get rid of him when the more desirable company had returned to the table.

"You do." He took out an exquisitely embroidered handkerchief and dabbed at the sweat on his brow. "Wriggled out of giving you an answer about what he's been up to, I'd wager."

He trundled over to a wicker chair at the edge of the hall—and, reluctantly, she followed him. She let him take her silence for a yes.

"Typical. His uncle Cygnus used to give me quite the same trouble," he continued, settling himself in the chair. "They're all taught in the cradle to make up excuses to get out of unpleasant 'scenes'."

"Who are?"

"Blacks, of course." Minerva raised the cup to take another sip, suddenly aware that as far as this line was concerned she was out of her depth. "Got a real talent for it—he's no different than the rest. I should know, he's the only one in the history of the family that wasn't in my house—"

"Which I think speaks for itself," she remarked, dryly, thinking about how often he had peppered sour comments about his relatives in the conversation. It was odd, honestly—for as much as he apparently disliked them, he was always coming back around to them.

They seemed to have a hold on him.

Slughorn read her mind.

"Oh, psh. A dust-up. A boy like that—good-looking, talented, charming, and heir to the whole bleeding kit and caboodle?" Horace waved a ringed hand dismissively. "They aren't going to throw that away for a bit of youthful folly."

Joining Albus Dumbledore's underground resistance movement probably would count as more than a 'bit' of youthful folly to Orion and Walburga Black, but she was hardly going to mention that to Horace. Half the hall would know before the reception was even over.

"Don't you think you're selling your own student a bit short?" she asked, taking another prim sip. His face fell.

"Oh, well…Regulus is a fine boy, a credit to Slytherin, but—you know," he admitted, reluctantly. "He just doesn't have _it_ the same way as the older one."

"Having 'it' doesn't mean much if it's misapplied."

"You're very hard on that boy," he said, giving her an uncharacteristically canny look. "I think you're fonder of him than you'd care to admit, Minerva."

Occasionally— _very_ occasionally, and it was never in matters considering himself—Horace Slughorn would exhibit a bit of insight that showed just why he had been head of Slytherin House for as long as he had.

"Nonsense," she muttered, watching Sirius sling his arm around James's, Lily beaming at them both fondly—and she felt a sharp pang of something in her chest that had nothing to do with indigestion from the rich food.

"It's hard to let go of 'em, isn't it?" He murmured, from her right. The drink had lent his voice a sentimental warble. "The really special ones, I mean."

"It's harder to stop worrying."

"Oh, you don't have to worry about the lovebirds—"

Of course she did. She knew it was only the wine talking, that he wasn't so naive—and perhaps it wasn't in the spirit of the occasion to think about it, but this group in particular—

The Potters were the apex of a circle notorious for drawing trouble. And _now…_

"That's not who I meant."

"Black?" Horace hiccuped. "Oh, I told you not to worry! Boy's just sowing his wild oats. He'll settle down soon enough."

Sirius Black "settling down" was difficult for even a woman of her considerable imagination to picture.

"I want to know how he's making ends meet in the meantime," she muttered to herself, watching as Lupin and Pettigrew went to join them at the head table. "He's too proud to sponge off Potter indefinitely."

She watched James squeeze Pettigrew's shoulder and Lily ruffle the hair of a bashful Remus Lupin.

"Big of pals as they are, I can't think why he would _need_ money," Slughorn laughed. "All that family gold he's inherited."

She whipped her head around.

"What do you mean?"

"He's a proper Black heir, isn't he?" Her mouth opened in genuine surprise. "I've had it on good authority his uncle Alphard left him a _not insubstantial_ pile."

"What 'good authority'?"

"The family's solicitor," Slughorn said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Lazarus Nithercott. Old friend of mine—and Alphard's a former pupil, left me a few, ah—token bequests, some interesting artifacts, a dragon skull…strictly used for ceremonial purposes, mind…so I went to Nither's office to look them over so, and after a few glasses of mulled wine we got to talking…"

She hardly had time to marvel at how Horace was able to get the confidential details of the will of a family legendary for their secrecy before she remembered—

 _"Being formally disinherited has_ some _perks…"_

"I'm—surprised," she said, stiffly, cutting over Horace's rambling speech on the famed Bolivian amulet he had once lost at auction to Alphard Black.

"Why should you be?" Horace asked, distracted by the blossoming red stain from the wine he had spilled on his cummerbund.

"I…was under the impression he didn't have much to do with his family anymore."

He stopped wiping up his front and looked at her; his expression was unaccountably shrewd.

"That was the—line he took, was it?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"And you, er—bought it?"

She didn't at all like the knowing lilt at the end of that question.

"I can tell what you're driving at."

His smile was, if possible, more annoying than Sirius Black's had been.

"Oh, Minerva…there's no need to be embarrassed," he said, giving her a sympathetic pat on the arm. "It happens to the best of us."

"What does, precisely?" he said, acidly.

"Well, we teachers do have a blind spot where are favorites are concerned—" he said, looking back over at Lily. "We always want to see the best. Think we know them, inside and out."

He was drawing a comparison between them, suggesting that she was susceptible to charm and talent as he was, couldn't see her students for what they really were—

"I'm sure you'd hate to think young Black would lie to you, but that doesn't mean he _wouldn't_. A young man likes to keep his secrets. I'm sure the boy has his reasons."

Horace trundled off again, in search of cake, no doubt, or another glass of wine.

Minerva slipped out of the wedding a half hour later, claiming a headache—Lily and James hailed her for a lengthy farewell, full of promises to visit and gratitude that she had come. By that point Black had disappeared in the sea of unfamiliar faces, and as she didn't want to leave the journey north so late, she left without saying goodbye.

It was to be the last conversation they had for over fifteen years.


End file.
